Saturday, January 30, 2010

A Reflection on "Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors", by Piers Paul Read

Certainly their quarrels were never serious when compared to the strong bond of their common purpose. Especially when they prayed together at night they felt an almost mystical solidarity, not only among themselves, but with God. They had called to Him in their need and now felt him close at hand. Some had even come to see the avalanche as a miracle which had provided them with more food.
Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors Ch 5

The reason why the other fifteen survivors looked askance at Parrado’s return to the kind of life he had led before was that they themselves had a more elevated – almost mystical – concept of their experience…that they were the beneficiaries of a miracle. Delgado considered that to have lived through the accident, the avalanche, and the weeks that followed could be ascribed to the hand of God, but that the expedition was more a manifestation of human courage. (Some of the survivors) felt that God played a fundamental role in their survival…(Others) were more inclined to believe in all modesty that their survival and escape could be ascribed to their own efforts…
Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors Ch 15, page 344

As I read the book I saw how acutely the Big Questions get addressed when you face a faith-wrenching experience like the one in the Andes. Most of those on the Fairchild had backgrounds in Roman Catholic education; and, regardless of their individual state of grace at the time of the crash, they brought to the crash site a belief in Christ’s promise to “be with (them), even unto the ends of the earth.”

I have never, thankfully, faced something I would consider a crisis. I have not lost a close family member, nor faced the trial of a long, drawn-out illness. I have not caught myself in any real way trying to make deals with God. Despite that I tend to be more pessimistic than I would like to be. I constantly fear what John Irving’s Garp called the “Undertoad” – that foreboding that something tragic is imminent. I try not to jinx my good fortune by writing about it, or dwelling on it, other than to quietly acknowledge its blessing, and to offer a little prayer of thanks.

I have, however, seen people face tragedy. More often than not, they seem to profess a stronger faith in God as a result of the crisis. I have to admit that for many years I found that unfathomable, steeped as I was in believing that God was omnipotent and providential. As such, he was at best capable of preventing those tragedies, at worst responsible for them. I was uncomfortable with the idea that these events were part of some grander story; one that may not unfold immediately, and may be beyond our comprehension, but ultimately was good and just. In fact, it was best not to question these events, but rather to rely on the Apostle Paul’s observation to the Rome church that “all things work together for good for those called to Christ’s purpose.”

These boys faced the horror of sudden death of some of their mates, and slower, agonizing deaths for others. They prayed the Rosary together, and then watched the one leading the prayer weaken and die. Their hopes continually crashed with a blunt force equal to that of the wreck. They were left with little choice but to eat the flesh and entrails of their friends. And yet, many described their 70-day experience as “mystical”. No one seemed ready to throw in their hat with Job’s wife – to curse God and die.

In fact, as the cited passage describes, many saw the hand of God at work in their individual survival. For them, it seems God was not responsible for the suffering and death of the victims but rather was the Force that kept them from the same fate.

It is interesting that the show of religiosity and faith was centered among the most invalid of the survivors. Is it fair to say that those who were weakest felt the greatest need to rely on God? Parrado and the other expeditionaries were the strongest, and seemed the least inclined to attribute their survival to God. Delgado’s observation that while Grace worked among those at the plane the expedition was a “manifestation of human courage” acutely captures the religion of many today: We need only rely on God when we cannot do it ourselves.

I struggle with that notion. I tend to no longer see events as segments of some pre-ordained whole. We have responsibilities, and free wills to carry them out. There are random events that in themselves are neither good nor evil, but nevertheless result in tragedy. There are things I can guard against, and things I cannot. If I submit to that worldview, is it hypocritical to run to God when I become overwhelmed and am no longer strong enough to do it myself? That’s to say, is it okay to ask for God’s protection for my 16 year-old when he is driving, and not for His guidance in every other part of my life? Those may not seem like terribly complex questions, but for someone raised in fundamentalism they are issues that cannot lay undisturbed.

Ed Bowling
January, 2007

A Reflection on "The Color Purple", by Alice Walker

A Reflection on The Color Purple by Alice Walker

Madame, he said, when Aunt Theodosia finished her story and flashed her famous medal (for “ her service as an exemplary missionary in the King’s colony”) around the room, do you realize King Leopold cut the hands off workers who, in the opinion of his plantation overseers, did not fulfill their rubber quota? Rather than cherish that medal, Madame, you should regard it as a symbol of your unwitting complicity with this despot who worked to death and brutalized and eventually exterminated thousands and thousands of African peoples.

Well, said Samuel, silence struck the gathering like a blight. Poor Aunt Theodosia! There’s something in all of us that wants a medal for what we have done. That wants to be appreciated. And Africans certainly don’t deal in medals. They hardly seem to care whether missionaries exist.

The Africans never asked us to come, you know. There’s no use blaming them if we feel unwelcome.
The Color Purple, page 234.

When I was ten or eleven, a missionary couple came to our church to show us slides and to talk about their work in some country in Africa, one whose name has changed a time or two since then. The woman talked about the mission’s school, which operated in a small cinder-block building with a tin roof. Slide after slide showed the building overflowing with children, so many that some classes were held outside due to the lack of space. The school was at a crossroad: Either a larger facility would have to be built, or they would have to turn some children away. Statistics about the number of village children, per capita income, infant mortality and illiteracy came at us rapid-fire, and she concluded her part by sharing anecdotes about one child or another convincing her parents to come to the mission to hear about Jesus.

Her husband took it from there, effusing about the religious conversions among the adults and the diminishing influence of the shamans and folk religion. His patter of statistics began with the number of young natives who felt a call to the ministry, and concluded with an estimate for the cost of building a seminary. “This is the Great Commission in action! This is what Christ told his disciples to do!” I was mesmerized.

The congregation dutifully contributed, and I was thrown into my first of many vocational dilemmas. Clearly, the work done by the missionaries was God’s work, I thought, and without their efforts all those people would be eternally lost. What calling could possibly be more important than to help save the souls of the children in those pictures?

Reading Nettie’s account of the mission to Africa reminded me of that night, and the subsequent conflict that exists in me today. I did not become a missionary, but have known several, and I admire their spirit of service and compassion. There is a selflessness about the vocation, and a genuine reliance on faith. And while there are more and more missionaries that see their purpose as primarily (exclusively?) humanitarian, there still exist thousands who rest in the conviction that they are called to “go into all the world and preach the gospel…baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”

Therein lies my conflict. Years ago, I began to better appreciate diversity in faith and culture. I studied western and eastern religions in graduate school, and enjoyed spending the weekends taking in a variety of worship and ritual services. I enjoyed studying the history of a faith, as well as its cultural context. Occasionally I grappled with the inevitable questions about which religion was the true religion, or at least the truest. I tended to skirt a final, or for that matter even a workable, answer to that question, preferring to place it in the realm of academic discipline rather than rule for life. Thus, proselytizing indigenous people became little more to me than a curious idiosyncrasy of a religion.

Over the past few years, however, faith has beckoned me. That faith is not the certainty of religious conviction that served my parents so well throughout their life, but it is at its core Christian. Recently, I have had difficulty reconciling the inherent exclusivity of Christianity with noble ideas about the equal sanctity of all faiths and cultures. I would like to be one of the cool liberals, readily accepting the validity and equality of opposing positions, but I keep coming back to the notion that if everything is Truth, then nothing is Truth.

If one embraces a religion, and identifies himself as an adherent, does he do a disservice to his faith by watering it down, equating it to all others? A Christian says that Jesus is “the way, the truth and the life, no one passes to the Father” except through him, while a Muslim prays the Shahadah: “There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his messenger.” They are not saying the same thing, and because they are not, they each have missionaries. The missionaries may seek novel ways to make their gospel pertinent and understandable to those they seek to proselytize, but to equate their religion with all others makes the key component of their mission immaterial. I think they are obligated to be set apart.

Samuel’s loneliness and lament that the “Africans never asked us to come” crosses the mind of many missionaries, I suspect. Despite that, I think it is right that they serve.

Ed Bowling
January 2007

Friday, November 14, 2008

Bonnie & Clyde Through the Lens


Bonnie and Clyde was nominated for 10 Academy Awards in 1967, including Best Picture. It won for Best Cinematography, and Estelle Parsons won the Best Supporting Actress award as Blanche Barrow. Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty starred as Bonnie and Clyde, respectively, and Gene Hackman, as Buck Barrow, and Michael J. Pollard as C.W. Moss joined Parsons in supporting roles. All five actors received Oscar nominations. Arthur Penn directed the film.

Bonnie and Clyde tells and shows a romanticized version of the story of real life Depression-era bank robbers Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. From 1932 to 1934 they led a crime spree that began in Texas and stretched from New Mexico to Missouri before getting killed by lawmen in Louisiana. The plot plays out in a series of nine scene sequences, beginning with Bonnie’s and Clyde’s first meeting and continuing until the final series of scenes ending with their deaths.

The opening credits establish the setting of the movie. A series of sepia-tinted candid photographs appearing to date from the 1930s show rural life during that difficult time: A grandmother and child, three generations of a family next to a tree in winter, a child following his mother outside a ramshackle house and broken-down barn, young boys wearing overalls and girls in sack dresses and boots standing outside a white washed schoolhouse. With each successive photograph, each on screen only a moment, the click of a camera shutter is heard. The first credit, a black background with white lettering turning to red and then fading from the screen, is wedged between a series of seven or eight photographs. The rest of the credits appear the same way, the sound of the clicking camera eventually joined by a love song in the style of that era. The credits end with three sentence biographies of Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.

Clyde’s bio dissolves into a big close-up of full, freshly painted red lips. This is the first image of the first sequence of scenes, a sequence I consider among the best I have ever seen in film. The lips turn to the left, and the camera follows, toward a mirror where we first see, in reflection, the face of Bonnie Parker. She is standing close to the mirror, examining her lips and eyes. At first her expression is one of satisfaction, but it quickly turns to something pensive and sad. The camera pulls back as she turns from the mirror looks around her small room with an expression of contempt. Her contempt is magnified by the lighting and color in the image: The brownish-pink skin of her face and bare shoulders and chest, the brownish-golden tint of her hair, the washed out brown walls, everything brown except those red lips. The camera follows her in medium close-up to her bed, where she plops down on her right side, the camera position slightly above her and capturing her full face between the bars at the head of the bed frame. She looks at first petulant, then empty, as she hits the bed frame several times with her right hand, a reaction to tedium. She grabs the bars of the bed frame and pulls herself toward the camera, her face now upright, framed squarely in the center of the image, her eyes empty, and her mouth curling into a sneer. We begin to sense that her life plays out this way every day. She rises quickly, and the camera zooms in to show only those empty eyes, completely devoid of life. The camera holds that close-up for about six seconds. Then she quickly rises and crosses to her bureau, pulls something out of the drawer and stands behind a changing screen. The emptiness is replaced by a look of despair, and she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She walks across the floor to her window, and stands bare-breasted in the frame, the petulant look returning to her face as she scans the street below. The entire scene takes about one minute, but the character of Bonnie Parker has taken root, established entirely by the camera, setting and face of Faye Dunaway.

Bonnie looks down on the street, the camera shot providing us with her point of view, and she sees Clyde sticking his head inside her mother’s car. She smiles a bit at this intrusion into her hopeless world. The camera shifts back and forth between perspectives, hers looking down at this handsome stranger, a respite from her boredom, and his looking up at an apparently naked woman in the window. She tells him to wait there, grabs a dress to put on and rushes down the steps to the front door, emerging with more anxiousness than she cares to have him see. She gains her composure, and they begin a dialogue as they walk into town.

The camera moves steadily along with them as they walk down the street. In the background you see a clapboard house, a yard with a small shed, a couple of cars up the street, some sort of truck depot, and some open-sided truck trailers with grain in them. Clyde tells her that he was just released from prison, which adds some danger to this new acquaintance. A matched cut advances their walk to the center of downtown, and they pass a boarded up theatre, several nondescript storefronts, one with a black man sitting on a bench in front. Otherwise, the town is without pedestrians or character. It looks as though the town is empty and boarded up, a sign of the times. The scene jump cuts to a big close-up of Clyde, his head back, a match sticking out of one side of his mouth, drinking from a bottle of soda. The camera cuts to a medium close-up of Bonnie, her bottle poised at her lips, looks of admiration and desire directed toward Clyde. The camera cuts to a medium two-shot, Clyde still drinking, Bonnie appearing to look past him as she forms a question in her mind. She asks him what armed robbery is like, he says it’s not like anything, and she accuses him of being a faker. He surreptitiously shows her his handgun, and, after stroking its barrel, she challenges him to use it.

He rises to the challenge, walking across the street and into Ritts Groceries. The camera draws back to a slightly elevated wide-angle long shot of Main Street. Clyde is walking across the street; Bonnie follows a few steps back and stops in the middle of the street. The shot implies desolation in the town. There is none of the activity you would expect for the main street of a small town during the day. The street is wide, the buildings on either side are brownish-red brick, and the sun casts a late afternoon glow on the scene. Three parked cars are the only indication that there may be other life in the town. Clyde goes into the store, Bonnie watches expectantly. Clyde backs out of the store, his gun aimed at the door, turns to show Bonnie the cash, and they begin to run down the street toward one of the parked cars. The camera returns to the wide-angle shot of Main Street as the storeowner rushes out toward them. Clyde fires a shot over the head of the storeowner, and the camera cuts to a medium shot of Clyde and Bonnie getting into the car, properly introducing themselves to one another, and driving out of town. The camera pulls back to the wide-angle shot a third time as people come running out of the seemingly abandoned buildings, drawn by the sound of the gunshot. The camera returns to the escape, alternating medium close-ups of Bonnie kissing and hugging Clyde shot from inside the car to long shots from various angles of the car careening through the countryside, bluegrass banjo and guitar providing the traveling music. The green trees, the red wheels on the two-toned car, and soft late afternoon light provides a warm contrast to the dull shades of the opening scenes. Clyde pulls off the road and stops the car, Bonnie becoming sexually aggressive. The deep despair she experienced in her room only a short time before is now replaced by exhilaration. Clyde rebuffs her advances, and explains to her that he is no lover boy. Frustrated, she replies that his “advertising is just dandy, folks would never guess you don’t have a thing to sell.”

Clyde explains to her that they are alike; they both want something different than what life has given them so far. He tells her that she deserves better than life as a waitress in West Dallas, and that together they can “cut a path clean across (Texas), and Kansas and Missouri, and Oklahoma, and everyone would know about it”. He convinces her that she is something special to him. Scene shifts to a booth in a diner. The camera shifts from medium two-shots to close-ups of each of them as Clyde tells Bonnie the story of her life, his read deadly accurate. He ends by saying “…and you go home everyday and sit in your room and say ‘when and how am I ever going to get away from this?’ And now you know”.

This sequence of four scenes lasts about 11 minutes. In that time, the director builds a foundation for developing the characters of Bonnie and Clyde. Bonnie is susceptible to low lows and high highs, full of passion and impatience, and in the end, fatalistic. At first, she doesn’t seem to attach any moral significance to their actions. Robbing and killing are part of her escape from the despair of West Dallas. Clyde is perceptive, charming, and sees crime as a way to make money during tough times. He steals from institutions, not people, and means no harm to anyone.

A perfect example of their differences occurs later, after C.W. Moss joins their gang. The scene opens with a long shot of the main intersection of a small but busy town. In contrast to the scene of their first robbery in West Dallas, the streets are full of cars and pedestrians. They rob the bank, and their getaway is impeded because C.W. parked the car. The banker jumps onto the running board of the car. Clyde shoots the man in the face. They escape down a dirt road, and the scene jump cuts to a movie theatre. The first shot is filmed from the back of the theatre, where the three of them sit with the backs of their heads visible in the foreground, and the chorus singing “We’re in the Money” from Gold Diggers of 1933 on the screen. The camera moves to the front of the theatre, a medium shot of the gangs’ faces. Clyde, agitated, is using his hat to hide his profile from passersby. C.W. is looking down, eyes watering. Bonnie is completely intent on the movie. Again from the back, with tighter shots on the backs of their heads, Clyde is admonishing C.W. for stupidly parking a getaway car. A close-up of Clyde, sweaty, remorseful, nearly apoplectic, is followed by a medium shot of the three of them, as Clyde tells C.W. that a man was killed because of C.W.’s stupidity. The camera shots a close-up of C.W., who’s on the verge of crying and is breathing heavily. Bonnie leans forward in order to not be distracted by Clyde’s diatribe. Clyde finally erupts, grabs C.W. by the back of his collar, and threatens to kill him if he ever does anything that stupid again. Bonnie turns, hushes them, and says that “if you boys want to talk please go outside”. She is completely unaffected by the killing of the banker. She turns back to the movie, her legs pulled up and her arms around her knees, enjoying the film without a care in the world.

The sequences in the middle of the film take place over the course of a year or more. Buck and Blanche Barrow are forced into joining the gang after Buck kills a lawman in a shootout in Joplin, Missouri. Extreme long shots displaying the beauty of the Missouri and Texas countrysides as the gang drives from place to place are juxtaposed with violent scenes of shootouts when the gang arrives at their destination. A long passage of time is accounted for when Buck reads aloud newspaper accounts of the gang’s robberies and alleged robberies.

Visually, Depression-era 1930s is seen at every turn. An old truck, weighed down with a family’s possessions, is carrying them away from a home repossessed by the bank. The residents of a shantytown near a small pond provide fresh water to the gang after a shootout. General stores, diners, barbershops, and grocery delivery boys all contribute to the tapestry.

The final sequence of scenes has some of the most interesting camerawork in the film. Buck is killed in a shootout, and Blanche is blinded and captured by the sheriff in Platte City, Missouri. C.W. drive Clyde and Bonnie, both badly wounded, to hideout at his father’s house in Louisiana. Ivan Moss appears hospitable but resents what they’ve done with his son, and he conspires to turn them in and save his son.

The scene opens with a car going by, completely out of focus. The director is using selective focus, blurring the foreground and keeping sharp the background. The camera pans slowly to the left, giving the effect of spying with binoculars. A sign for the NRA, a barbershop, a poster of FDR, a sign reading Department of Water, Arcadia LA, a Coca Cola sign above the word Pharmacy, and a Call for Philip Morris sign all move across the screen. The pan continues to the next storefront, Eva’s Ice Cream Parlor, and stops. The camera pans downward to show Ivan Moss speaking to a man whose back is to the camera. A store clerk brings a box of ice cream to the table, and Moss shakes hands with the other man. Moss stands, moves toward the door, and steps out into the sunlight. He pauses for a moment, looks left and right, a look of deep concern on his face. He walks away from the door, directly toward the camera. A truck passes between Moss and the camera and as it leaves the field of vision Moss is gone and the other man, a Texas Ranger seen previous in the film, emerges from the store. Ivan Moss has made his deal.

That evening, Moss warns C.W. not to ride back from town with Bonnie and Clyde the next day, setting up the two final scenes of the movie.
The camera is set for a medium, eye level shot from the driver’s side of Clyde’s car. He and Bonnie are carrying groceries and put them in the back seat on the passenger side, and Clyde goes around the car and sits in the driver’s seat with the door open. They are waiting for C.W. to come out of the hardware store where he went to get some light bulbs for his daddy. The interior shots are done at different angles, some from the backseat, as Bonnie and Clyde pass the time. Bonnie leaves the car and walks across the street to the hardware store. A sheriff’s car pulls in next to Clyde, who casually backs out of the space, intending to pick up Bonnie and head out of town. A close-up shows C.W. peering out from behind a curtain, certain that Clyde will outwit the sheriff as he always does. Clyde rolls the car up next to Bonnie, she gets in, and they drive off. C.W. is pleased with the result, thinking that Clyde fooled them again.

The last scene opens with Ivan Moss repairing a tire for his truck on the side of the road. He turns and looks down the road, expecting Clyde to drive by soon. The scene cuts to the interior of Clyde’s car, where they are discussing a plan to go back and get C.W. later. Scene cuts back to Moss working the tire when he sees the car coming around a curve in the road. Moss stands in the middle of the road to flag them down, and they pull over. Clyde gets out of the car and offers to help. Bonnie stays in the car. A montage of 29 images fills the next 20 seconds: Bonnie looks out the front window of the car, Clyde glances at Moss, Moss sees a car coming down the road, Moss looks at the bushes across the road, Clyde turns to see a flock of birds fly out of the woods, Moss watches them fly, Clyde follows their ascent, Bonnie looks sees them from the car, Moss looks back into the woods, the car continues down the road, Moss dives under the truck, Clyde looks down at Moss, Bonnie looks out the windshield at Moss, Clyde chuckles at Moss then looks into the woods, Bonnie turns to look into the woods, Bonnie turns to look at Clyde, he turns to look at her, and she smiles, her eyes full of life and love for him, and he moves toward the car as the gunfire erupts from the bushes. Hundreds of rounds are fired, the camera moving from Clyde to Bonnie to the gunners. Clyde falls in slow motion, Bonnie, still in the front seat, jerks wildly as the bullets hit her. The machine gun fire lasts for several seconds, and, when it stops, the bodies roll in slow motion to their final position. Two black men in the car that was approaching have stopped, and now approach, not sure what has happened. The shooters emerge from the bushes, led by Texas Ranger Frank Hamer, and Moss rolls out from beneath the truck. The final shot is filmed from the opposite side of Clyde’s car, through a window with a bullet hole in it, sharp focus on the lawmen looking down at the bodies. Fade to black.

Bonnie and Clyde in many ways is a throwback to an earlier era of filmmaking. The story itself is set in the early 1930s, when gangster films were an emerging genre. The real life exploits of Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger, George Nelson, and other depression-era criminals helped give rise to that genre. Also, there are several scenes, particularly in the early part of the film, where there is no dialogue, and Dunaway and Beatty show the story as well as any silent-era stars could do.

Bonnie and Clyde also had Character similarities to the film I did before, Grand Hotel. Bonnie and Grusinskaya, while culturally and socially opposites, both suffered extreme despair until meeting and following in love with big-hearted thieves. The Baron, with Kringelein, and Clyde, with C.W., each befriended a man who came to deeply admire their emotional benefactor. Both Baron and Clyde also made powerful enemies who, in both cases, brought about their deaths.

Bonnie and Clyde benefited from the use of color, which was generally not available, and from explicit images of violence, which was generally not acceptable in the earlier film era. I cannot image the story without the golden color of Faye Dunaway’s hair in the sunlight, or the red circles on Clyde’s white shirt as the bullets hit him.

Although I had seen the movie several times, it had been about 20 years since I last saw Bonnie and Clyde. This time I watched it differently than I did before. And it made the movie, and the experience, wonderful.

Monday, July 31, 2006

A Review of Schindler’s List and Responses to Issues Addressed by Richard Wolin and H. R. Shapiro


Reel Whirled Peas



After watching Schindler’s List in preparation for this assignment, I am ashamed to say it was my first time viewing the film. I recall the subject controversies surrounding it upon its release in 1993, and then the cinematic accolades that followed, including the Academy Award for Best Picture. But for me the subject was just too horrible to think about, and I conveniently kept putting off its viewing on the grounds that such an important subject and film deserved my full attention, and I wasn’t quite ready. I have now watched it twice, over two days, and both times it shook me.

Between viewings, I read reviews of the film by Richard Wolin, and H.R. Shapiro. In addressing the film’s depiction of Amon Goeth, the SS commandant of the Plaszow facilities, Wolin warns the reader not to assume that the Final Solution to eradicate Judaism was solely the work of pathological figures. “By pathologizing Nazi crimes”, he writes, “we spare ourselves the distasteful thought that, were it not for the avid participation of people very much like ourselves, the whole enterprise would have foundered early on” (my emphasis). His observation is right on target. It confirms my continuous thought throughout the film: Why are all those people abetting these crimes? And, it provides a basis of explanation for my reticence in watching the film before now.

Wolin writes “None of the evil perpetrated by the Nazis would have been possible without the support and cooperation, on a truly massive scale, of ‘ordinary men’”. In the film, those “ordinary men” are everywhere. In at least two scenes, Wehrmacht soldiers tousled the hair or pinched the cheeks of young Jewish boys in an affectionate way, both in the course of perpetrating some violence on the adults. There were construction workers building the barracks in the first scene of Goeth’s wickedness, when he ordered the shooting of the construction supervisor. A German officer executes her, and none of the workers seem to notice. I caught myself wondering what would I do if I were on the scaffolding, part of a work detail to build an unjust prison, seeing the brutality. I don’t know.

Wolin goes on to list those “…men and women throughout Europe who either stood to profit from the Jews so-called ‘disappearance,’ or who, more often, just did not care.” The other profiteers that Schindler tried to engage in his plan to “buy” the Jews’ safety were men of power and influence, yet none in the movie could be convinced to help. A few years ago documentation surfaced that implicated Deutsche Bank and some Swiss banks, claiming that they had benefited from the theft of Jewish property by the Nazis, and that they had made little effort to return the assets to their rightful owners. They paid reparations.

And there were those who just did not care. In a scene showing a wealthy Jewish couple being evicted from their large apartment (the one Schindler would inhabit), Poles are screaming epithets and throwing rocks at the displaced, who wander toward the Krakow ghetto. You sense the animosity many working class Poles must have felt toward the Jews. What caused widespread anti-Semitism? Perhaps it was jealousy toward the Jews for their education, business acumen, and relative affluence. In any case, many Europeans apparently cared little about the fate of the Jews.

H.R. Shapiro suggested that many Jews cared little about the fate of other Jews.

Shapiro contends that Spielberg made a film that “does not tell the whole story of the vast majority of Jews, but only a small elite who were part of the Nazi apparatus”. Schindler’s Jews were members, family, and associates of the Krakow Judenrat, the Jewish Council empowered to implement Nazi policies. Shapiro is highly critical of the Councils, suggesting that without their organization and leadership the number of Jewish deaths would have been far less than the 4.5 to 6 million estimated. He further claims that many in the Judenrate, along with the Nazi-Jewish police and enforcement squads, exploited their position for material gain. In the movie, Goldberg lands a Jewish policeman position early in film, and suggests to Pfefferberg that he do the same, implying to his fellow black marketer that profit could be made. Goldberg’s enterprising eventually pays off as Schindler begins providing trinkets to him, through Stern, for moving certain workers into the ceramic factory.

Shapiro makes an interesting point, and his assertion that many Jews today look contemptuously on the Judenrate as self-serving Nazi collaborators is probably true. I do not think, however, that everyone who served did so with avaricious intent. In Holocaust: An End to Innocence, Seymour Rossel admits that bribery and smuggling became part and parcel of ghetto life. But he also describes the Judenrat’s responsibilities for watching over the community’s health and sanitation, and for running and staffing the clinics and hospitals. Rossel suggests that like any other kind of bureaucracy there are bad leaders and good leaders. The leader of the Lodz Judenrat, Chaim Rumkowski, was a power-hungry Nazi collaborator who wielded king-like authority over the lives and deaths of 160,000 Jews until the Nazis put him on the last train out if the Lodz ghetto in 1944. He was, after all, a Jew. Rossel contrasts Rumkowski with Czerniakow of Warsaw and Rotfeld of Lvov, both Judenrat heads, who each committed suicide rather than decide their people’s fates.

A major part of their job was to assign work in ghetto factories and elsewhere. In the movie, Stern used his influence and Schindler’s money to insure the right people, (Shapiro would say the “privileged Jews”) showed up on the right work manifest. This was often the case where the worker had no particular skills – a certain death sentence absent Stern’s intervention. Shapiro suggests that for each “privileged Jew” benefiting from an association with the Judenrat, another, perhaps more qualified but less connected, was shipped out for special treatment. I found nothing in the movie to refute that assertion.

And yet, as you watch the film, you pull for the characters you meet. This brings me to my third topic.

Wolin asserts that Schindler, Goeth, and Stern are the only characters developed in the movie. The Jews are seen as “…tragic victims and servile accommodators. But they are devoid of personality. They are the film’s supernumeraries and huddled masses, waiting to be saved.” I strongly disagree with that statement. Although each character has limited time on screen, the sum of his or her dialogue, expressions, and interactions with the surroundings develops the character enough for the film viewer to connect with them. Early in the film, Pfefferberg surreptitiously removes his gold star and wanders into the Catholic Church to discuss smuggling with the other black marketers. In a short dialogue, we see that he clearly is a tough businessman. A moment later Schindler approaches him, and Pfefferberg’s facial expressions and body language perfectly reflect a savvy man sizing up a situation. While the others slither away, Pfefferberg goes with his instinct and begins a business relationship that ultimately saves his life. He becomes Schindler’s contact to the black market.

Later, stolen glances between Pfefferberg and wife Mila indicate a deep affection for one another. During the liquidation of the Krakow ghetto, Pfefferberg is nearly being caught in the sewers, and afterward comes face to face with Goeth. We are not surprised to see the hustler once more close the sale, pretending to be a nebbish sycophant following orders to clear the street of debris. Later he escapes the trains because he is Goeth’s mechanic. He operates, and survives, around the edges.

Goldberg is another survivor, preferring to work from the inside as opposed to Pfefferberg’s outside. Helen Hirsch, the woman whose only wish is for a small list of rules to follow that will guarantee her safety. The movie depicts the maternal fortitude of Chaja Dresner, and the faithfulness and industriousness of Rabbi Lewartow. In each case the actors created individuals.


Reading each movie review allowed me to focus more closely on specific details as I watch the film a second time. Wolin made two other excellent points not addressed in this paper: The Nazis’ irrational compulsion to annihilate the Jews, and the modern reliance on visual media to get information. I felt Shapiro was harsh in his assessment of the Judenrate, but privilege was clearly at work among the Schindler Jews. However, the issues of fairness, collaboration, bribery, and compromise all come down to this quote from Stern to Schindler: “There will be generations because of what you did.”


Source:
Rossel, Seymour, Holocaust: An End to Innocence, Copyright 2003 by Seymour Rossel
http://www.rossel.net/Holocaust07.htm

Monday, July 24, 2006

Racism, Warlords, and Oil in Black Hawk Down


Reel Whirled Peas:



The sight of blood and gore does not bother me too much. I worked my way through college doing odd jobs at a funeral home. Having said that, I rarely watch films that are violent because I suspect there will be acts of cruelty and injustice that will offend my sensibilities. For that reason, I never before watched Black Hawk Down, Ridley Scott’s film based on Mark Bowden’s documented series that appeared in the Philadelphia Inquirer. I remembered seeing the CNN footage of the Somalis dragging the body of a slain American soldier through the street, and being angry that they would do that to someone over there to help them. When the film came out in 2002, I decided not to relive that anger. But my summer courses have set me on a path toward a personal glasnost, and learning the truth about America’s actions on October 3, 1993 is another step toward being de-Fox News-ified.

The film was released on an accelerated schedule not long after 9/11, ostensibly to cash in on the rising tide of patriotism. Larry Chin, Associate Editor of Online Journal and vitriolic critic of all things Republican and military, said that the film was an example of “(Hollywood) being true to its post 9/11 government-sanctioned role as US war propaganda headquarters”. That seems like an odd thing for him to suggest, because Hollywood has traditionally been a bastion of anti-war liberalism. Rather than pandering to the military I believe the early release was motivated by good old-fashioned greed. Emotionally emasculated Americans wanted images of heroism and military might, and despite the ambiguity of the operation’s outcome, most viewers came away feeling good about the bravery of the soldiers.

But the timing of the film’s release aside, several critics point to problems with the depictions of the events and characters, three of which this paper will explore: The film’s racist tone, its characterization of General Aideed, and the influence of American oil companies to prompt former President Bush to commit U.S. troops to Somalia in the first place.

At first glance the film certainly looks to be a race war between whites and blacks. I counted one black and one Hispanic soldier among the troops sent in to execute the operation. The long shots of angry Somalis marching up the streets, the roving bands of marauding militias, black children and women aiding in the destruction of honorable white soldiers. Chin describes the images as a series of racist subtexts: “Americans are good and they hate us for no reason”, “they are ungrateful”, “they are black”, “they are Muslims”.

I think his assessment is harsh. The fact is that Somalis are the enemy in this film, and Somalis are black. The film establishes that the central neighborhood where the firefight took place was a stronghold of General Aideed. The film does not address the basis for the animosity Aideed’s followers feel toward Americans, but it shows crowded streets of lawlessness, where automatic weapons are openly sold (and tested) on the street. None of the critics refuted that description of the Bakara Market. In his review, David Perry says the film implies that everyone in Somalia was loyal to Aideed and antagonistic toward the U.S. Yet, as General Garrison is laying out the operation he says that the convoys will pass first through a couple of friendly neighborhoods. Then, as the convoys finally leave the battle zone, soldiers on foot are met by Somali children who lead them down the street past a throng of non-antagonistic residents. “Friendly” Somalis are on screen very briefly, but in showing them the filmmakers attempt to convey that not all Somalis/Blacks/Muslims were participants in the hostilities.

Mickey Kaus, on the other hand, points out the racism inherent in statements about the casualties of the battle. The filmmakers list the names of the 18 killed in the firefight – correction – the 18 Americans killed – overlooking the 400-500 Somali men, women and children who died. There seems to be acceptance, says Kaus, by the military and the movie’s viewers, of an “exchange ratio” of perhaps 25 Somalis deaths for each American death. I think Kaus is right. Regretfully, as I watched the movie I tried keeping track of the number of American casualties, but was only mindful of two Somali killings: The boy who inadvertently shoots his father, and the woman who picks up the weapon of a Somali just killed. I guess there is always prejudice when pulling for one’s side.

The only description the film provides for Mohammad Farah Aideed is that he is “the most powerful of warlords, (who) rules the capital Mogadishu. He seizes international food shipments at the ports. Hunger is his weapon. The world responds. Behind a force of 20,000 U.S. Marines, food is delivered and order is restored. April 1993. Aideed waits until the Marines withdraw, and then declares war on the remaining U.N. peacekeepers. In June, Aideed’s militia ambush and slaughter 24 Pakistani soldiers, and begin targeting American personnel.” Kaus confirms those facts, although he implies that the events are taken out of context. Then in the opening scene, we see some of Aideed’s militia open fire on a crowd of unarmed civilians trying to get grain from a Red Cross food shipment. The militia has claimed the shipment as the property of Aideed. That incident cannot be found in literature, according to Kaus.

Clearly, Aideed is characterized as an evil man, a fair target of the U.S. Army. In Kaus’s article he quotes a Wall Street Journal review as saying that the film’s producer insisted that Aideed be “unmistakably portrayed as a Hitler-like figure responsible for thousands of killings.” The audience is left with the impression that this is a madman, bent on killing Somalis and relief workers alike. But is the characterization fair and accurate?

Aideed was a onetime favorite of pro-Western President Mohammad Siad Barre. In his summary of the events leading to October 3, Karamatullah K. Ghori describes Aideed as having “imbibed a lot of India in him” during his five years as Somali Ambassador to India. He returned to Somalia against Barre’s wishes, and proceeded to become one of the President’s chief “tormentors”. Civil war broke out across Somalia, as Aideed and other warlords sought to overthrow the corrupt government of Barre, whose business dealings with American oil companies made him rich but did little for the Somali people. Barre was overthrown in January 1991, and Aideed, the recognized leader of the militarily superior Habr Gidr [Hawiye] clan, eventually assumed control of most of Mogadishu.

The U.N. wanted peace among the warring clans, as well as a coalition government. According to Kaus, Aideed believed his clan had earned the right to rule the country, a position that was untenable to the U.N., and particularly to U.N. head Boutros Boutros-Ghali, who was a supporter of Barre. The U.N., whose initial foray into the country was for humanitarian aid, undertook a series of actions designed to weaken Aideed’s hold on power. In 2004 article, Somalia: The Long Struggle for National Unity, Jabril Sanei says Aideed interpreted the U.N.’s actions as trying to divide Somalia along tribal lines, for him an act of imperialism. When the U.N. raided Aideed’s radio station in June 1993, Aideed’s United Somali Congress (USC) militia responded by brutally killing the Pakistani soldiers. That action prompted U.N. security head James Howe to call in the U.S. Special Forces to hunt down and arrest Aideed.

An operation conducted by the U.S. on July 12, 1993 resulted in the deaths of 50-70 Habr Gidr [Hawiye] clan elders and intellectuals, meeting to discuss Aideed’s response to the U.N. Chin states that the missile attack was retribution for the killing of the Pakistanis, and that many of the clan leaders killed were moderates promoting a peaceful settlement. The operation resulted in the clan declaring war on the U.S., and spurred other clans to join ranks with the USC. That is why, Kaus points out, it looks as though nearly everyone in Mogadishu rallies against the soldiers on October 3.

I believe Aideed was a bad guy, but warlords are supposed to be bad guys. In most civil wars ruthless and oftentimes brutal leaders lead opposing factions. Kaus points out that the U.S. cooperates with brutal warlords today in Afghanistan. The film’s suggestion that Aideed was unique in his villainy owes more to creating an unsavory film enemy than to reality. After all, a month or so after President Clinton called back the Army Rangers the U.N. convened a peace conference in Ethiopia and reversed its position on Aideed. Instead, according to Sanei, the U.N. tried to bring him together with other clan leaders to form a central government. By the end of 1994, Aideed appointed himself president and formed a government representative of all the clans in Somalia. I do not know whether other warlords in Somalia were more brutal, but it is clear that others may have been more accommodating to the West.

That leads us to our third issue, this one raised in the readings: Was American participation prompted by protecting American oil interests?

According to Sanei, Barre seized power in a military coup in 1969, and by 1974 the U.S. was providing military aid to prop up his government. War with Ethiopia resulted in an economic and social crisis in 1980, and opposition to Barre’s autocratic and corrupt government intensified. Barre undertook a series of indiscriminate and brutal reprisals aimed at quelling the opposition, but instead the West, who became horrified by the brutal regime, began pulling their aid. In the mid-1980s Barre began selling drilling rights to American oil companies. In The Oil Factor in Somalia, reporter Mark Fineman obtained documents that said that 2/3 of Somalia had been allocated among four companies, and that “industry sources said the companies holding the rights to the most promising concessions are hoping that the Bush Administration's decision to send U.S. troops to safeguard aid shipments to Somalia will also help protect their multimillion-dollar investments there (my emphasis).”

Both Chin and Ghori point to oil as the former President Bush’s motivation to send 20,000 troops on a humanitarian mission to Somalia in the last month of his term. When Bush was Reagan’s vice president he spoke of finding alternative oil sources to reduce reliance on politically volatile Mideast oil. Ghori suggests that lame-duck Bush sent the troops to eventually restore Somali leadership sympathetic to the West in order to “lubricate (his sons’) passage into high-stakes politics by obliging his powerful friends.” Conoco, one of the four firms holding the rights, made significant investments in finding oil in Somalia, their decision to do so based on a World Bank assessment that oil was there. Cononco’s investment was significant enough that, according to Fineman, they stayed in Mogadishu through the two-year civil war and allowed their headquarters to be a de facto embassy in the days preceding the arrival of the Marines in December 1992. Throughout the American intervention, Conoco provided logistical and facilitation support to the military’s humanitarian mission. Clearly, oil played a role in the U.S. involvement.

Is it reasonable to believe that Bush had ulterior motives in sending the troops? His coziness with the industry and the odd timing of his actions do seem suspicious. The question is whether Bush, or any administration for that matter, would have committed the troops for wholly humanitarian reasons. In the years before the Soviet collapse, protecting U.S. business interests and humanitarianism could be neatly packaged with anti-communism and made palatable to most Americans. But in those days just after the fall of communism, altruism got trickier. With troops just recently home from Desert Storm, and the economy reeling, a commitment of 20,000 Marines for a humanitarian cause may have struck many Americans concerned with huge budget deficits as excessive. For twelve years Republicans promoted an agenda of pro-business initiatives and reductions in domestic social programs. For Bush to stem that tide with a single act would be out of character. While I believe it’s possible for America to commit selfless acts of humanity, the 1992 situation in Somalia was not one of those times.

In summary, the movie was not consciously racist, but American viewers should certainly reflect on their feelings after seeing the film. Aideed, a warrior fighting a civil war, was a bad guy, but not in the absolute way depicted by the film. And, sadly, George Herbert Walker Bush did commit humanitarian troops with an eye on protecting U.S. business interests.

Sources:

Course readings

Bowden, Mark, “Black Hawk Down”, a series of investigative reports appearing in the Philadelphia Inquirer, November 16 – December 14, 1997 http://inquirer.philly.com/packages/somalia/nov16/rang16.asp

CNN Presents Black Hawk Down: A Modern Story of War http://www.cnn.com/CNN/Programs/presents/shows/blackhawk/interactive/the.story/frameset.exclude.html

Harrison, Eric film review Black Hawk Down http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/ae/movies/reviews/1216070.html

The Destruction of Neutrality – Cambodia in The Killing Fields


Reel Whirled Peas



For me, the most troubling thing about studying contemporary issues, through film or other media, is that it reminds me of the bottomless capacity of human beings to inflict pain and death on others. What occurs in the hearts of men who remorselessly kill children and the defenseless? And, how can there be so many likeminded people bent on the destruction of millions of others?

Those questions arose again as I watched The Killing Fields, Roland Jaffe’s film adaptation of the true story of a 1970s American news reporter and his Cambodian partner. The movie is full of moral conflicts and outrages, of the indelicate balancing of suffering and ideology, and of the destruction of neutrality, both political and moral. There was plenty of blame to go around for the sequence of events that eventually led to the deaths of as much as 1/3 of the entire population.

Some of the blame must be directed at the U.S., for its “secret war” in Cambodia beginning in 1969.The action in the film begins in August 1973, when New York Times foreign correspondent Sydney Schanberg returning to Cambodia just after the U.S. Congress had determined that U.S. bombings in Cambodia were illegal and the military was directed to stop. By that time, it’s been estimated that the U.S. had dropped over 500,000 tons, or $7 billion worth of bombs on Cambodia since 1969.

Despite Cambodia’s official position of neutrality in the U.S. – Viet Nam War, Norodom Sihanouk, the erstwhile king and head of state, began allowing the Vietcong to use border villages and ports to hide from American and South Vietnamese ground troops, store ammunition, receive armament shipments from Russia and China, and plan guerilla attacks. Gen. Creighton Abrams, the senior officer in charge of American troops in Viet Nam, sought and received approval from President Nixon to begin the secret bombings directed at Viet Cong in March 1969. The New York Times broke the story of the secret bombings two months later. Soon after, Sihanouk, while in France, was replaced by General Lon Nol following a vote in the general assembly. The U.S. supported the ascendancy of Lon Nol who supported the U.S. and was a strong anti-communist but a weak leader and strategist. His government was corrupt, and his support of U.S. intrusion into Cambodia made Lon Nol extremely unpopular. Once again, the U.S. government, with its almost fanatic anti-communism foreign policy, had supported a weak exploitative head of state.

The carpet bombings, as is often the case, resulted in killing innocents in addition to the intended targets. In The Banyan Tree: Untangling Cambodian History, Bruce Sharp describes a wedding processional that wandered into a B-52 target zone near the village of Saang. Hundreds were killed. And, just after Schanberg’s return a B-52 crew “mistakenly” dropped its entire ordinance on the village of Neak Luong, killing 137 and wounding 205. This occurred after the ban on bombing Cambodia was imposed by Congress. The exact number of civilian casualties is unknown, with estimates ranging from tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands. Such occurrences, combined with Lon Nol’s unpopularity and the reemergence of Sihanouk as a supporter of the communists, led tens of thousands of Cambodians to support the Khmer Rouge, who overthrew Lon Nol and assumed the seat of government in 1975.

Some of the blame for the catastrophe in Cambodia has to be directed at the foreign press covering the events. In the film, Sydney Schanberg, safely back in the U.S., is asked in an interview whether the press had a role in the ascendancy of the Khmer Rouge. The interview followed Schanberg’s acceptance of an award, maybe it was his Pulitzer, for his and Dith Pran’s reporting of events. I thought it was an interesting, and troubling question, and his response was unsatisfactory. He admits that the press underestimated the communists, but that the real culprit was the $7 billion in bombs that the U.S. dropped.

I believe the press was obligated to report the secret actions of the U.S. government and the corruption of the Lon Nol regime. But where does the press draw the line in deciding if disclosure may result in greater atrocities than the event they are reporting? In his review of Vietnam Chronicles: The Abrams Tapes 1968-1972 Nathan Alexander observes that Abrams viewed the press as his main opponent. “His struggles will be less in securing hamlets, than conveying the significance of this to the American public”, he writes. The confrontation between Schanberg and the military attaché early in the film shows the mistrust each has for the other. According to Alexander, the military began feeling hamstrung by the media, electing not to undertake certain initiatives because the media will stir up the anti-war forces back home. This was true of our actions in Cambodia, where a lack of popular support here for Lon Nol and our military may have diminished our capacity to keep the Khmer Rouge from gaining control.

Is it reasonable to assume that they should have done a better job reporting on the actions of the Khmer Rouge? In the film, Pran, Sydney, the driver and two other journalists are rousted from their vehicle and might have been killed were it not for Pran’s intercessory skills. They saw the brutality of the communists first hand. In their rush to trumpet the sins, and there were many, of the U.S. and Lon Nol, they, in Schanberg’s words, underestimated the brutality of the Khmer Rouge.

War correspondents are a strange group. They make a living off the suffering of people ravaged by conflict. There is another scene that takes place just after Schanberg receives his award, when he runs into Al Rockoff, the news photographer that served in Cambodia with Schanberg. Rockoff rebukes Schanberg, saying that he abandoned Dith Pran because the he was more interested in the Pulitzer Prize. That may not have been the case, but many correspondents become inured to the suffering surrounding the story, and in Cambodia I think that was true. Schanberg certainly agonized about Pran’s fate, but we see no evidence that he was remorseful about the driver who had served him for at least 3 years. At the beginning of the film, Schanberg refers to Cambodia as a place that he came to love and to pity. I think the word “pity” sums up his feelings correctly.

And, finally, blame must be put on the leadership of the Khmer Rouge. By 1972, the Khmer Rouge had built an army nearly 50,000 strong, perhaps 20 times as large as they were in the late 1960s. Their leader, Pol Pot (a nom de guerre), followed an extreme version of Marxism that he learned as a student in Paris. For him, the revolution superceded everything, including, or rather especially, human life. The favorite saying of the Khmer Rouge was “To preserve you is no gain, to destroy you is no loss”.

Pol Pot envisioned a Kampuchea – he changed the name following their victory – that would be completely rural and self-sufficiently agrarian. As soon as they assumed power, the Angkar – the government organization of the Khmer Rouge- forced hundreds of thousands out of the cities. Sharp describes how hospitals were emptied, with many dying in the transition. Families were forced to flee with a moments notice. People were identified as either “old people”, those from the countryside loyal to the communists, or “new people”, those from the cities, particularly professors, doctors, and nearly anyone with education. The Angkar wanted to eliminate anyone with the intellectual capability to rebel.

Their methods of elimination were not quite as efficient as, say, the Hitler’s Nazis, but efficient enough to lead to between 2 and 3 million deaths from 1975-1979. Most of those deaths resulted from systematic starvation, but hundreds of thousands of victims were shot, bludgeoned, burned, suffocated, impaled or disemboweled. The movie accurately depicts accounts I found in other sources. There was great brutality and cruelty in their destruction. Children as young as 12 or so, young girls, teenage boys, and middle aged men all partake in the killing in the film. Eventually, Pol Pot, like Stalin 40 years before, realized the only remaining threat were those he had trusted most, and, again like Stalin, he set about to purge the ranks of the Angkar. Despite being deposed by the Vietnamese in 1979, Pol Pot, despite leading one of the most ruthless regimes in the 20th century, still maintained a role in Cambodian politics until just before his death in 1998.

As for blame, I watched Sam Waterston as Schanberg deliver Sydney’s award acceptance speech several times. It was an indictment on the U.S. Government’s unholy bombing and invasion of Cambodia, but the substance of his ridicule could apply to all those involved in the Cambodian catastrophe: “…when decisions…were made…after they considered their options…and they concerned themselves with many things…great power conflicts, and collapsing dominoes…looking tough and dangerous. They had domestic concerns as well…. keeping secrets…and not ignoring self-interests in their own careers. The only thing they were not concerned with were the Cambodians themselves, not the society, and not the country, except in the abstract as instruments.”

So I return to the question of how such atrocities are perpetrated by so many. A reviewer of the film says we cannot “…dismiss The Killing Fields as more mysterious Asians mistreating each other, and Westerners, for their own inscrutable reasons. We must face their actions as the natural consequences of modern war and fanatical ideology…” (my emphasis) www.cambodian.com/dithpran/film.htm. Having experienced neither, I am still not sure how one gives up his humanity.
Background Sources:

Alexander, Nathan, review of Vietnam Chronicles: The Abrams Tapes 1968-1972
http://www.intellectualconservative.com/article4430.html

Canby, Vincent Screen: Tale of Death and Life of a Cambodian http://movies2.nytimes.com/mem/movies/review.html?title1=&title2=KILLING%20FIELDS%2C%20THE%20%28MOVIE%29&reviewer=Vincent%20Canby&v_id=27323&partner=Rotten%20Tomatoes

Ebert, Roger Film Review The Killing Fields http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19840101/REVIEWS/401010352/1023

Film Review The Killing Fields
http://www.cambodian.com/dithpran/film.htm

Internet Movie Database
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0087553/

Sharp Bruce, The Banyan Tree: Untangling Cambodian History
http://www.mekong.net/cambodia/banyan1.htm

Wikipedia Cambodia
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cambodia

Fitzcarraldo - An Allegory of Colonialism


Reel Whirled Peas



Roger Ebert wrote “Werner Herzog’s “Fitzcarraldo” is one of the great visions of the cinema, and one of the great follies”. Vincent Canby says “(It) may well be a madman’s dream, but it’s also a fine, quirky, fascinating movie. It’s a stunning spectacle, an adventure-comedy not quite like any other, and the most benign movie ever made about 19th century capitalism running amok”.

The film is full of wonderful images of Amazonian colonialism at the turn of the 20th century. Spanish rubber barons have put tens of thousands of Indians to work tapping, emulsifying and blocking the rubber from hundreds of square miles of trees. The center of the rubber trade, Manaus, Brazil becomes, according to the manager of the world-class opera house there, the wealthiest city in the world.

In fact, the film opens showing that very opera house, where Enrico Caruso and a very mannish Sarah Bernhardt are performing a Verdi opera (actually, Bernhardt is lip-syncing). This performance is the reason Brian Sweeny Fitzgerald and his brothel-owning mistress, Molly, have traveled 1,200 miles down the Amazon from the jungle village of Iquitos, Peru. Fitzgerald is called Fitzcarraldo by Indians unable to pronounce Fitzgerald. Fitzcarraldo undertakes several business ventures, all of them failures, in order to raise the money needed to build an opera house in Iquitos. He decides to farm rubber, but the only land available is inaccessible due to deadly rapids and equally deadly headhunting tribes. Fitzcarraldo, using his admiring Molly’s money, buys a large steamboat. He figures he can take an alternative river into the jungle, and then transport the boat over a mountain to the other river, far above the angry rapids. That adventure is heart of the story, and for me it’s an allegory of colonialism.

Fitzcarraldo has a dream of bringing European culture to the remote world, and making some money doing it. For him, culture is European opera, and for opera he proselytizes with the same vigor as Christian missionaries. He is a man of ideas, but needs to surround himself with workers to execute his vision. Fitzcarraldo’s first hire is a Dutchman, a fellow European who can be trusted, to captain his ship. Then he hires the cook, a drunken native who can translate the languages. The cook serves as Fitzcarraldo’s liaison with the crew, a rag-tag group of Indians. A large, powerful Indian mechanic comes with the boat, compliments of the boat’s seller, Don Aquillino, a rubber baron who wants to be kept apprised of Fitzcarraldo’s progress. The roster is set, looking very much like a standard colony: European adventurer/entrepreneur, his white general manager, his native lackey, a spy, and a crew occasionally on the verge of rebellion.

The boat heads upstream, toward the next frontier, much to the chagrin of the crew. Soon the unseen headhunters surround them, and the crew jump ship, leaving Fitzcarraldo and his three main hands to fend for themselves. Fitzcarraldo finds a way to connect with the natives. He displays something new and interesting to them – his recordings of Caruso. They are intrigued by the music, and the boat, which is far grander than anything seen before. The colonizer has put a spell on the natives, and, rather than killing the intruders, the natives agree to work for him. They help him transport the boat over the mountain. When two young Indians are accidentally killed, the Indians stop work for some time, causing Fitzcarraldo to worry that they will quit for good, leaving him with a boat halfway up a mountain and no workforce to complete the task. Or, even worse, that they may rebel, and kill the remaining crew. Those are anxieties faced by the colonizers as well.

Settlers were able to control their colonized natives in a number of ways. Often, control came by force. In other cases it came through monetary compensation. Fitzcarraldo had neither device. However, he learned, through the cook/interpreter, that the tribe held dear a legend about a “great white god”, who would calm the rapids and lead them to a place of peace. Fitzcarraldo exploited this myth, and with it he held sway over this tribe that held his life in their hands.

Together, the crew and the tribe transported the boat over the mountain, with the kind of cooperation necessary in every successful colonial venture. After they got the boat to the other river, there was a grand celebration, everyone taking equal pleasure in the achievement. As Fitzcarraldo and the crew slept the next morning, the Indians cut the boat from its moorings, and sent it toward the rapids, essentially an act of liberation. The boat ran the rapids, and arrived, badly damaged but floating, back where it started. The jungle again belonged to the natives. The colonizers moved on to other things.

Fitzcarraldo sold the boat back to Don Aquillino, securing enough profit to hire the opera company to perform one time on the boat as it passes along the coast of Iquitos. Fitzcarraldo is satisfied. He has brought opera to the jungle.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

Missing: Horman v. United States of America


Reel Whirled Peas



Re: Horman v. United States of America, et.al

As attorney for the Defendants, I want to address the primary accusations presented by Mrs. Horman and her attorneys.
First, the United States government, through its agents in Chile, Ambassador Nathaniel Davis, Chief Military Liaison Ray Davis, and Consul Fred Purdy, was complicit in the arrest and execution of her husband, Charles Horman, on or around September 18, 1973. Mrs. Horman asserts that the Chilean police arrested her husband shortly after the successful coup by General Pinochet on September 11, and that Charles Horman’s subsequent execution at the National Stadium in Santiago could not have happened without the consent of the U.S. government.

We agree with Mrs. Horman that Charles Horman was arrested in the days following the coup, and that he was subsequently executed at the direction of the Chilean Nation Police at the National Stadium on September 18. Charles Horman’s father, Ed Horman, received that information from a staffer at the Ford Foundation, and Embassy personnel confirmed it through the Chilean government. This admission by General Pinochet’s government was not initially forthcoming to our Embassy. They admitted executing Charles Horman only after our Embassy presented them with the information Ed Horman had ascertained. In this regard, the Chilean government misled us.

Mrs. Horman contends that her husband was arrested because he “knew too much”, a reference to his alleged observation of U.S. military assets in the area during a brief trip to Vina Del Mar in the days preceding the coup. It has been documented that the U.S. put economic pressure on the Allende government, and provided some funding to alternative parties, for the purpose of providing a level playing field in anticipation of the 1976 Chilean general elections. Our efforts were not designed to overthrow Allende’s government, but rather to allow alternative politics to develop. America was not directly involved in the coup, but there is evidence that our efforts to balance the political debate in Chile inadvertently empowered General Pinochet.

The attorneys for Mrs. Horman point to a 1976 Washington Post interview with Rafael Gonzalez, a Chilean security official who was later indicted for Mr. Horman’s murder. Gonzalez indicated that Horman was executed because he “knew too much”, and that an American official was present when the decision was made to kill him. According to Ambassador Davis, the basis of Gonzalez’s statement was that the alleged American was wearing American shoes. Mr. Gonzalez’s interview was conducted in the Italian Embassy, and there are indications that he was seeking asylum in a number of countries, ostensibly to distance himself from the act for which he is now indicted. There is not credible evidence supporting his assertion of U.S. involvement in Horman’s death.

Mrs. Horman’s attorneys also point to a recently de-classified 1976 memo written by staffers to Harry Schlaudeman, a high-ranking State Department official in the Latin American division. The memo describes the Horman killing as “bothersome”, and the staff indicated that Congress, the press, academia, and the Horman family all believed the State Department to be negligent or complicit in Horman’s death. The memo then goes on to say that the writers did not have an accurate accounting of the events surrounding Horman’s death. However, the writers were persuaded that the government of Chile were sufficiently threatened by Horman, and felt he could be killed with little negative reaction from the U.S. We believe the last statement indicates Chile’s naiveté, that because of Horman’s leftist ideology the U.S. would not pursue a full accounting of his death. It does not mean, as the plaintiff’s attorneys would have you believe, that there would be no reaction because of U.S. complicity. On the next point, however, we agree that a case can be made that our Embassy failed to protect Mr. Horman.

Mr. Horman, and Frank Teruggi, another American executed shortly after the coup, both worked for Fin, a left-leaning news clipping service, and their pro-Allende politics may have made them a natural target for the junta. Knowing that, the Embassy should have located them and extended protection. The Embassy should be criticized for failing to do so in a timely manner, but that failure does not constitute complicity in their murders. There is simply no hard evidence to indicate that State Department personnel had any hand in Mr. Horman’s death.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Patrice Lumumba - An Alternative Ending


Reel Whirled Peas



Patrice Lumumba, former President of the Republic of Socialist Congo, Dies in Exile
July 17, 2006

Johannesburg, South Africa (Reuters) - Patrice Emery Lumumba, who ruled the Republic of Socialist Congo (RSC) from 1961-1989, died yesterday in Johannesburg, where he has lived since being deposed following a civil war in 1989. He was 81.

Lumumba, a former beer salesman in what is now Kinshasa, founded the Congolese National Movement, the first political party that sought members from all Congolese tribes, in 1958. Although looked upon as a troublemaker by the Belgian government, Lumumba had broad popularity, and his party won big in the Congo’s first elections in May 1960. Lumumba formed a coalition government with political rival and first president Joseph Kasavubu, a rocky relationship that ended in December 1960 when Lumumba ousted Kasavubu with the help of the Soviet Union, and changed the name of the country to the Republic of Socialist Congo (RSC).

Next, Lumumba turned his sights on Katanga, the resource-rich southern province that seceded from the Congolese government shortly after independence. Katanga was supported in their move for independence by Belgium and the United States who were uncomfortable with Lumumba’s relationship with the Soviets. Lumumba declared war on Katanga, and his bitter enemy, Katanga president Moise Tshombe, in February 1961.

The four-year war that followed is a textbook example of the proxy wars undertaken by the United States and Soviet Union in the 1960s. Lumumba’s populist socialism was pitted against the economic elitism of Tshombe. The RSC army, led by General Joseph Mobutu, and supported by Soviet advisers and materiel, overthrew and subsequently executed Tshombe, whose chief supporter, the United States, had begun reallocating its resources to the Vietnam War.

Once he reunited RSC and Katanga, Lumumba moved quickly to nationalize industry, especially Katanga’s lucrative mining operations. Lumumba worked hard to incorporate the country’s many tribes into a unified government, and a strong world economy in the late 1960s contributed to a period of relative prosperity for RSC as commodities prices rose. Lumumba began assuming a more neutral Cold War position, and started courting western European capital as he set out plans for further modernizing the infrastructure, economy, and education system of the RSC.

During the early 1970s he chaired several pan-Africa initiatives on trade and education. But as the world slid into recession in 1973 Western investment disappeared throughout Africa, especially in RSC. With the economy in a shambles, the modernization initiatives shelved, and unemployment at an all-time high, the army, still under the direction of Joseph Mobutu, attempted a coup in January 1974. Lumumba was unable to arouse the support of the Soviets, who were unhappy with his recent shift toward the West. Help came from the other side of the Cold War, as the U.S., seeking to reestablish its global influence as the Vietnam disaster wound down, believed Lumumba was preferable to a Ugandan-style military dictatorship. The coup was put down, and Mobutu was executed.

Fearing that other coup attempts may be imminent, Lumumba consolidated his control over the military and then began conducting a series of purges. He instructed parliament to re-write the constitution, placing more power in the presidency. In order to rebuild the SRC’s fractured economy, Lumumba sought funding from the International Monetary Fund (IMF), and agreed to privatize most of the country’s mining businesses. However, the “structural adjustments” required by the IMF increased the nation’s poverty, and civil war broke out in 1980. For the next 9 years rebel factions supported by Rwanda and Uganda waged war with Lumumba, who fled to Egypt in 1989, and eventually settled in South Africa at the invitation of President Nelson Mandela in 1994.

Lumumba spent his remaining years writing and advising on African politics. His wife Pauline died in March. Patrice Lumumba is survived by 5 children.

Background source
http://www.africawithin.com/lumumba/historical_bio.htm

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

The Color of Paradise

Reel Whirled Peas

The Color of Paradise is a beautiful movie filmed in 1999 in Iran. It’s the story of a blind child, Mohammed, who leaves his urban school for the blind and returns to his family’s farm near the mountains. His widower father is a coal worker, and the farm is worked by his 2 young sisters and granny.

The opening set of scenes, occurring at the school, show classrooms full of elementary-aged boys, all of them blind, who live and study together under the watchful eye of their kind and generous teacher. The boys physically guide one another, joke around, and work diligently on their Braille lessons. In all respects the scene could be taking place in New York or London. My sheltered and ignorant western perspective was surprised to see such effort made to accommodate these children. I have seen so many news images of special needs children shunted away, neglected by their families, the embarrassing result of some heavenly retribution.

The first indication that this is an Islamic republic comes when the parents arrive to pick the boys up for their 3-month break from school. All of the mothers are wearing black burkhas. But even that is subtle, on screen for just a minute, because this is not a film about living in an Islamic society, but rather a film about hope and loss, disappointment and renewal, themes that transcend geography and culture.

Later, as Mohammed and his father head out through Teheran to catch the bus that will take them on the first part of their journey home, father stops by a couple of local businesses to sell wares: a hand-woven rug in one store, and a silver bracelet in another. You don’t have a sense at this point whether his actions are truly commercial or he’s simply pawning possessions to raise money to go home. Later in the film, when father is addressing the family of a woman he is courting, he mentions that he was recently in Teheran conducting some business, which the prospective in-laws found very impressive.

The scenes involving the courtship were not surprising. The several trips father makes to call on the family always involve gifts, self-promotion, and delicate negotiations. The first time we see him arrive, he was shaven himself and put on his best clothes, and rides to her home on his horse, smiling broadly to show his fine teeth, so caught up in presenting a good image that he fails to see the low-hanging tree branch that knocks him off his steed. On his last visit, where plans are made for the wedding, he presents a dowry, a wad of bills and some jewelry, and his future father-in-law congratulates him. He will be marrying into a more well to do family than his own, and through this entire courtship he has not let on that he has a blind son. He may very well be one of those who see that burden as a curse, and he does not want to risk losing that opportunity. Later, after his mother dies, his prospective in-laws return his dowry, believing that his mother’s death was a sign that the marriage would be cursed. Even in a theocracy, old superstitions die slowly.

The Iraq-Iran War, along with other civil conflicts over the past 30 years left as many as a million widows and betrotheds in Iran. At one point the family tells father of their daughter’s loss of a fiancé, and that father represented their last hope for marrying her off. Throughout their conversations each side seemed to be saying the same thing, want the same result, but each inherently knew that certain protocols and traditions had to be adhered to. And yet, despite all of that, they called off the wedding because granny died.

The other set of scenes that were interesting showed the relative self-sufficiency of the family farm. They grew alfalfa, wheat, and corn, and raised chickens. They had vast fields of colorful flowers nearby, which they picked by the bushel for use in making cloth dyes. Although they did not show how the dyes were used, perhaps father’s sale of the rugs in Teheran was a commercial venture after all. By all indications Mohammed’s family, while not wealthy, seemed relatively comfortable. Despite all he had, however, father was a sad man. He asks his mother why God has made his life so terrible.

But, like so many other things in this film, those doubts are not unique to Iranians. In more ways than it shows our differences, The Color of Paradise shows our similarities.

We wish to inform you...Stories from Rwanda

Reel Whirled Peas

What does one do when the government allows, or rather encourages, the mass murder of a segment of its population? Where does one turn when the conventional sanctuaries have turned you away, or, even worse, lured you into extermination?

As I read We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families, I caught myself asking those questions, and wondering how human beings can hate deep enough to commit these atrocities. Philip Gourevitch, through extensive first hand accounts, provides readers with real-life stories of Rwandan genocide of Tutsis in 1994. Each page seemed to be more horrible than the page before.

The numbers are staggering: During a 100-day period, at least 800,000 people were murdered, mostly be machete. That was over 10% of the entire population of Rwanda, making the massacres, as Gourevitch points out, a literal decimation of the country. Many attribute the animosities that gave rise to this inhumanity to the remnants of colonialism, which perpetuated pre-colonial roles of Tutsis as herdsmen and Hutus as cultivators. The Europeans favored the lighter-skinned Tutsis, and over time the “Hamitic Myth”, that Africans who physically best resembled Europeans were superior to their darker brethren. The Belgians exploited the myth in order to maintain control over the country, as a way to play each of the other. This was done in spite of the fact that the two groups had interbred so much that many Tutsis assumed physical attributes of the Hutu and vice versa.

Following Rwanda’s official independence in 1962, the Hutu majority ruled, and began its retribution toward Tutsis for decades of social and economic subjugation, retribution that culminated in the 1994 genocide. Once “Hutu Power”, a racist ideology that codified the destruction of Tutsis, took hold in the cities and countryside, the interahamwe death squads set about to kill all the Tutsis. The army and the police were co-sponsors of the genocide. Hospitals, schools, and churches were no longer safe havens for targeted Tutsis. Rescue was not forthcoming. Everyone abandoned the Tutsis: The United Nations, the United States and Europe. The only reason any of them survives was because of army and militias became so pre-occupied with murdering Tutsi civilians that they forgot to fight the rebel forces.

Gourevitch reports the story of Pastor Elizaphan Ntakirutimana, the president of the Seventh-day Adventist church in Rwanda, and his son, Dr. Gerard, who had been trained in the United States. The Pastor, by eyewitness accounts, helped perpetuate the slaughter of Tutsis by assuring their safety in the church and instead turning them over to the militia. Likewise, many Catholic priests and at least one Bishop allowed Tutsis to be massacred on their watch. As I read those accounts, I wondered where Christ was. How can men of God, ordained to relieve the suffering of Christ’s children, allow – even encourage – atrocities perpetrated on the defenseless? Their story was one that I wish had been in the film Hotel Rwanda. In the only country in Africa with a Christian majority, the Church failed Rwanda. I am ashamed of that.

As I read the book, I could not imagine the images. I responded to the discussion board that the film created the images I cold not create on my own: The menacing faces of the army, the jubilance of the interahamwe in the midst of hacking people to death, the calm voice over the radio encouraging Hutus to kill. To some extent, I understand war. I understand anger and action. I even understand isolated occurrences of murder, when passions overwhelm sanity. I cannot understand the murderous collusion of millions of people. I cannot understand how neighbors, in-laws, friends, and business associates can suddenly turn and hack to death people once dear to them.

The book also had a depiction of great humanity. Paul Rusesabaginga, the manager of the Hotel des Milles Collines, showed great resourcefulness and courage in finding a way to save over 1200 people. He was by no means a superhero, but rather an ordinary and pragmatic man who on at least two occasions gave up freedom from the persecution in order to tend to others. I am sure there must have been others who showed compassion and service at great personal risk, but their numbers must have paled compared to the murderers. The book, and the movie, affected me deeply.